


Possible (8/39?)

by Mexta



Series: Possible [8]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, post-412
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-01
Updated: 2014-06-01
Packaged: 2018-02-03 01:39:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1726469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mexta/pseuds/Mexta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey visits the clinic</p>
            </blockquote>





	Possible (8/39?)

Part 8

"Can you read?" the receptionist asked.

Mickey started to roll his eyes and reach for the clipboard, until he saw the multiple pages filled with small print and big words. Man, how did being sick involve so much reading? He pushed the clipboard back. "Not really."

She shrugged. "That's okay, th  
e nurse will go over it with you. You have health insurance?"

"No. Uh ... the flyer says it's free."

"If you're accepted into the program, it can be, yes. What's your source of income?"

"Uh ... " Mickey paused, considering. "It's a bit ... "

"You have a steady job with wages?"

That was easy. "No."

"Okay. Birthdate?"

He started to give his own birthday but by the time he got to the year he'd done a quick calculation of Ian's age and used his instead.

The receptionist went over the address and phone number he'd made up over the phone the day before and he nodded and made mental notes in case he needed them again. Yevgeny seemed to have fallen asleep in the backpack which made it all easier.

"All right, you can go in and wait for the nurse now." 

She directed him into a small room and left him there alone with the door shut, so he had chance to explore quickly. Lots of technical-looking equipment but no meds that he could find, and nothing that looked easy to sell. 

He stopped when the nurse came in, a middle-aged Latina wearing whites who looked like she'd seen just about everything already. She took the chair in front of her desk, flipped through the file the receptionist had left, then looked up a Mickey. "You wanna sit down, Eddie?"

He'd used a fake name more of less out of habit. He shook his head, hands stuffed in his coat pocket. 

"Suit yourself. That yours?"

For a moment he didn't know what she meant. "The kid? Yeah, he's mine."

She nodded. "Can you tell me what brought you in here?"

"Yeah, uh ... I've been feeling kinda depressed lately." Mickey had more or less planned his opening. "Like, I don't wanna get out of bed, don't wanna talk to anyone. Don't wanna see anyone ... family or friends."

"How's your appetite?"

"Not good." Mickey shook his head. "Hardly eating anything at all."

"And when you say you don't want to get up or talk to people -- why is that? Are you tired, not feeling well? Or just not interested?"

"I think I'm ... just not interested," Mickey said slowly. 

"How long has this lasted?"

"About a week?"

"And was it gradual or sudden?"

"Sudden. I mean ... just all of a sudden I didn't wanna get out of bed."

"And how were you feeling before that?"

"A lot different. I was doin' crazy shit, stuff I don't usually do. Makin' big plans, and then ... sometimes losing my shit for no reason."

She nodded, looking at him with faint curiosity. "And how were you feeling during that time?"

Mickey tried to imagine what was going on in Ian's head back then, and came up blank. "I dunno, man. I don't know what was making me do that stuff."

"Was that around the time the baby was born?"

"What? No, man. Nothing to do with that."

The nurse frowned a little, tapping her finger on the desk. Then she picked up the file. "Let's go through the survey questions."

For the next half an hour she read out questions and he tried his best to answer as though he were Ian. Pages of questions, covering everything from his family history, medical background and education through to his sex life and whether he was dating anyone. And moods -- lots and lots of questions about how he felt -- how often did he think this, how often did he feel like that. And did he ever think about killing himself?

It was exhausting. Mickey could answer basic questions about Ian's family and provide some background about Monica, but for the rest of it he either had to guess, make things up, or lie. Plus, when questions came up about kids he had to remember that the nurse knew he had one, even though Ian didn't. Mickey was used to faking answers but even for him this was a stretch.

When she was finished, the nurse put the sheets down in the file folder, closed it, and looked up at him with that look his probation officer so often gave him. She tapped the folder again. "This isn't you. Is it, Eddie?"

Mickey opened his mouth, stopped himself, and thought about it for a second. "No."

"Who is it?"

"My -- friend." He crossed his arms and looked down at her. "Most of the shit I told you is true though. As much as I know."

She nodded, thoughtfully. "Eddie, your friend is probably quite ill right now. But we need to talk to him directly. Did you try to get him to come down here today?"

"Course I tried." Mickey shook his head and leaned against a wall across from her. "He ain't been outta bed in a week. He couldn't make it in here if he wanted to."

"It's very important that he come in. If what you say is true, he probably would qualify for our program. We can start him in a session while we try out some medications, get him levelled out."

"He don't want meds. He thinks they'll turn him into a zombie."

"That doesn't have to happen. There are lots of options these days. We can try different things, see what works."

"Lithium? Is that what you're gonna try?"

She shook her head. "From the sounds of it, he's having a depressive episode. We'd likely start with something else."

"Like what?"

"An SSRI, maybe. There are plenty with minimal side effects. We can see how he responds."

"What's that called?" Mickey leaned forward, anxious to catch the name.

"An SS-- it's a category, not a name. Eddie, don't even think of stealing something for him. You need to bring him in here."

Mickey threw out his hands. "How'm I supposed to do that? I told you, I can't even get him out of bed. Even if I did, he can barely walk."

"He can't stay in bed," she said flatly. "His muscle's will atrophy, he'll get bedsores. If he isn't up as least part of the time in a week, you need to call an ambulance and have him committed."

"No _way_." He jumped to his feet and stabbed at her with his finger. "There is _no way_ I am sending him to some -- "

"Nut house, I know." The nurse rolled her eyes. "I hear that all the time. But if he isn't safe at home, someone else needs to look after him."

Mickey paced around the small room, a sense of hopelessness starting to wash over him for the first time. "How?" he asked finally, wheeling around to face the nurse again. "How do I get him up?"

She put her head to the side, looking up at him. "Does he have good days? Or at least, _better_ days?"

Mickey paused. "Ye- maybe. Yeah."

"Try when he's having one. He might be more receptive. And if you can get him up at all ... exercise and sunlight are very therapeutic. Try to get him outside, even just for a walk around the block."

Mickey remembered the drawn curtains in his bedroom, and made a mental note. "Okay. What else?"

"There's no magic bullet. Keep him fed and hydrated if you can."

"Beer okay?"

"It's not gonna help him any but it that's what he wants to drink, one or two won't hurt him."

"Can he bang ... uh, have sex while he's like this?"

Her brow furrowed curiously. "Does he want to?"

"Not really."

She shrugged. "He can if he wants. If he can get it up. Does he talk to you about any of this?"

"No, man. He don't wanna talk at all."

"He's probably worrying about a lot of things. Right now he might feel like everything is overwhelming and there's no way to fix any of it. If you can get him to tell you some of what he's worried about, maybe you can break things down together and make it feel more manageable."

Mickey lifted his eyebrows and looked at her. "You ever been to the south side?"

"... even if it isn't." Her smile was sardonic but not unsympathetic. "You made it in here, didn't you? Look, call us when you have him ready for a visit. We can get you an appointment within a day -- even within a couple of hours if you aren't sure how long you can keep him going." She reached for the door handle and pulled it open.

"Okay." Mickey stood in the doorway, trying to remember if he had any more questions.

"One week." The nurse said behind him. "If you don't have him out of bed a week from today, you call an ambulance."


End file.
